into Castle City proper, bringing more people and cheaper goods from Denver, and taking raw ore from the mines back to the rock mills, where bright silver was freed from black carbonate of lead.
Castle City itself was far bigger than he had ever seen it. But then, it was a strange trait of Colorado mountain towns that, unlike most cities, they grew backward. A rich gold or silver strike could turn a small mining camp into a clapboard city of five thousand people overnight. Then, as one by one the mines played out and shut down, people moved on, and the city shrank. A few such towns found rebirth a century later as winter playgrounds for the wealthy. Castle City was one of the rest—a patchwork of Victorian frame houses, rust-roofed shacks, and not-so-mobile homes where just a few hundred souls dwelled, a ghost of its former splendor.
At least, that was how things were in Travis’s memory. But just then, in the valley a thousand feet below him, that ghost was alive and well.
He still hadn’t gone all the way into town. That thought had frightened him as much as speaking the rune of fire. This was every bit as much an alien world as Eldh was the first time he had set foot in the Winter Wood. How would people react to his Mournish clothes or his twenty-first century accent? Would he even be able to communicate with them?
His fears hadn’t been entirely unfounded.
While in this era, as in his own, McKay’s General Store would have had everything he needed, he had instead stopped at the first shop he came to a half mile outside Castle City. Its square false front couldn’t hide the crude cabin that skulked behind, but Travis didn’t care. The store was situated close to the mines of Castle Peak, and—no doubt like a lot of the miners—Travis was more concerned with proximity than selection.
He pushed through the door into a dim space, the air stinking with smoke. Wooden crates made a haphazard maze. Guns, tin lanterns, hams, and pickaxes hung from low rafters. The only person in view was a short, dour woman who stood behind a counter fashioned from a plank slapped over two barrels. Her oily hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and she wore a heavy black dress, its shoulders dusted with white flakes of dandruff. She looked up from the ledger open before her and gazed at him with narrow eyes in a puffy red face.
“So what are yeh now, some kind o’ bilk?” Even with the help of the silver half-coin, her high, nasal words were only barely understandable. “An’ here I was thinkin’ the Cousin Jacks out o’ Cornwall were a queer lot, what with their tales an’ all. Well now, I cain’t help yeh if yer grubstake is already bust. I don’t give nothing away for free. ’Cepting for lead, that is.” She nodded to the gun lying on the counter within easy reach of her hand—a small derringer with a mother-of-pearl grip.
Travis started to brush the dust from his flowing Mournish garb, then forced himself to stop. He didn’t want to draw more attention to his outlandish clothes. He cleared his throat and tried to speak in as plain a voice as possible.
“I have these.” He held out the small hoard of thick gold coins he and the others had collected by rummaging through their pockets. It wasn’t much. All the same, a fire lit in the woman’s eyes.
“Well, don’t jes’ stand thar. Give me them eagles.”
He gave her the gold pieces, and she frowned, no doubt realizing they weren’t U.S. coins after all. Taking up a small knife, she scratched several flakes off the edge of one of the coins. She grunted, then placed the coins on one side of a small scale and piled brass weights on the other. Travis noticed her thumb lingered along with the weights, but he said nothing.
“I’ll give yeh fifty dollars for ’em. Well go on.” She waved her stubby hand. “Take yer pick o’ the store. I’ll tell yeh when yeh’ve hit yer limit.”
By the chortling in her voice, Travis knew she was getting the better end
Castle City itself was far bigger than he had ever seen it. But then, it was a strange trait of Colorado mountain towns that, unlike most cities, they grew backward. A rich gold or silver strike could turn a small mining camp into a clapboard city of five thousand people overnight. Then, as one by one the mines played out and shut down, people moved on, and the city shrank. A few such towns found rebirth a century later as winter playgrounds for the wealthy. Castle City was one of the rest—a patchwork of Victorian frame houses, rust-roofed shacks, and not-so-mobile homes where just a few hundred souls dwelled, a ghost of its former splendor.
At least, that was how things were in Travis’s memory. But just then, in the valley a thousand feet below him, that ghost was alive and well.
He still hadn’t gone all the way into town. That thought had frightened him as much as speaking the rune of fire. This was every bit as much an alien world as Eldh was the first time he had set foot in the Winter Wood. How would people react to his Mournish clothes or his twenty-first century accent? Would he even be able to communicate with them?
His fears hadn’t been entirely unfounded.
While in this era, as in his own, McKay’s General Store would have had everything he needed, he had instead stopped at the first shop he came to a half mile outside Castle City. Its square false front couldn’t hide the crude cabin that skulked behind, but Travis didn’t care. The store was situated close to the mines of Castle Peak, and—no doubt like a lot of the miners—Travis was more concerned with proximity than selection.
He pushed through the door into a dim space, the air stinking with smoke. Wooden crates made a haphazard maze. Guns, tin lanterns, hams, and pickaxes hung from low rafters. The only person in view was a short, dour woman who stood behind a counter fashioned from a plank slapped over two barrels. Her oily hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and she wore a heavy black dress, its shoulders dusted with white flakes of dandruff. She looked up from the ledger open before her and gazed at him with narrow eyes in a puffy red face.
“So what are yeh now, some kind o’ bilk?” Even with the help of the silver half-coin, her high, nasal words were only barely understandable. “An’ here I was thinkin’ the Cousin Jacks out o’ Cornwall were a queer lot, what with their tales an’ all. Well now, I cain’t help yeh if yer grubstake is already bust. I don’t give nothing away for free. ’Cepting for lead, that is.” She nodded to the gun lying on the counter within easy reach of her hand—a small derringer with a mother-of-pearl grip.
Travis started to brush the dust from his flowing Mournish garb, then forced himself to stop. He didn’t want to draw more attention to his outlandish clothes. He cleared his throat and tried to speak in as plain a voice as possible.
“I have these.” He held out the small hoard of thick gold coins he and the others had collected by rummaging through their pockets. It wasn’t much. All the same, a fire lit in the woman’s eyes.
“Well, don’t jes’ stand thar. Give me them eagles.”
He gave her the gold pieces, and she frowned, no doubt realizing they weren’t U.S. coins after all. Taking up a small knife, she scratched several flakes off the edge of one of the coins. She grunted, then placed the coins on one side of a small scale and piled brass weights on the other. Travis noticed her thumb lingered along with the weights, but he said nothing.
“I’ll give yeh fifty dollars for ’em. Well go on.” She waved her stubby hand. “Take yer pick o’ the store. I’ll tell yeh when yeh’ve hit yer limit.”
By the chortling in her voice, Travis knew she was getting the better end
Similar Books
